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by borevidal



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M, Revelation of feelings, this assumes rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borevidal/pseuds/borevidal
Summary: Francis watches greedily as James recovers.





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**Author's Note:**

> I am in total awe of the gorgeous and well-researched fics in this fandom. I just wanted to bring a tiny stone to the cairn to say thanks.

The journey back is long and slow, first by land and then, finally, by sea. But each day he sees a little of the color return to James’ face and it is like the sun sliding into the sky.

There was a time when Francis had resented it, taken for granted James’ fine sharp elegance —though he of course noted it; he could not have missed it even then. But now he looks eagerly for it, hoards greedily the healthy flush that now rides atop James’ cheekbones, the clear brightness of his eyes. James is becoming beautiful again because he will soon be well. Sometimes he thinks it is impossible that James should become any more beautiful, and then James’ eyes light up when he enters the cabin and they are not sunken and hollow, and Francis can barely breathe with delight. Of course he loves James. To do otherwise would be like despising springtime. Even Francis is not contrary enough for that. 

“What will you do first when we are ashore?” James asks one afternoon. He has been writing a letter; he sets it to the side of the small bunk where he is propped up in bed.

Francis looks, momentarily, in spite of himself, bleak. “I’ve not imagined it yet.”

“Nonsense, Francis,” James says, and there is a little more music in his tone than yesterday. “You must think of it! I think of it continually. I shall sleep in a bed, first, I think, and then when I rise I shall seek out my barber for a shave and—“ he gestures, carelessly, at his hair, “to make me as tolerably respectable as he can—“

“Oh,” Francis says, a little disappointment creeping into his tone. James looks amusement at him.

“You disapprove?”

“Certainly not,” Francis says. He cannot think of a way to say what he means. His fingers itch to smooth James’ hair. He tries to think how to put into words this nameless urge to see James entirely whole and entirely luminous, not shorn into ordinariness. 

“You’ve gone quiet,” James says, grinning.

“Haven’t,” Francis says.

“Quite tongue-tied,” James says, a warm laugh bubbling out of his throat. “Francis. You _like_ it. I—“

“Do what you will,” Francis snaps, unable to keep the fondness from his voice. “It doesn’t signify what I like.”

James looks mirthfully up at him. “My dear captain,” he says. “Here I thought you of all people to have disapproved of such vanity.”

“Well,” Francis says, and this time he watches his hand draw near to James’ face. They both watch it together. He tucks a strand of chestnut hair behind James’ ear and his fingers linger, just an instant. “I suppose I am used to you, now.”

“I won’t wreak too much havoc,” James says, face breaking into a smile — _more sun, more every day_. “Now that I know it pleases you.”

“I don’t think you could keep from pleasing me, James,” Francis says, drinking in the sunshine, fingers smoothing the hair away from James’ brow. James does not cease looking at him. It scarcely feels like a confession; there is not even surprise in James’ eyes.

“Francis,” James says, warm and quiet. “Oh. I am glad.” He catches Francis’s hand, presses his dry lips to the fingers. Francis folds their fingers together. There is such warmth in James now. Every day more. He wonders if maybe there is spring in his own face too.


End file.
